


Five Facts You Won't Find in "Hogwarts, A History"

by mayerwien



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5 Things, Canon Compliant, Deleted Scenes, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-12 22:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11746692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/pseuds/mayerwien
Summary: 2. Once, over the course of two memorable weeks, an escaped Chizpurfle wreaked havoc inside the castle.“Awhat?”Ron whispered, when it was announced at dinner.“A Chizpurfle,” Hermione hissed back. “Newt Scamander wrote about them inFantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.They’re small crab-like parasites that feed off larger creatures like Augureys and Crups, but they’re also attracted to leftover potions and objects with high magical concentrations.”“My mam told me about them,” Seamus Finnigan said darkly. “She said once when I was little, we had a Chizpurfle infestation in our house. Turns out they were after her wand and some of the rare spellbooks she kept in the attic.”“Theyeatwands?” Harry asked, horrified.“Yeah. Mam told the neighbors it was rats. Had to live with my uncle Angus for three weeks, while the Ministry pest control cleaned ‘em all out.”





	Five Facts You Won't Find in "Hogwarts, A History"

**Author's Note:**

> I have an eight-year-old creative writing student who loves Harry Potter, and who also recently discovered the world of fanfiction. We’re having our last session together soon, so I wrote her a fic to say thank you and goodbye. This one’s for you, Angie.

  1. _The annual Hogwarts pictorial is always held on the first of October._



It was well-known that most of the Hogwarts professors loathed picture day, to a degree directly proportional to the students’ love for it. Pictorial sessions disrupted classes, and took forever given the number of students that had to be rounded up, sent back to their dormitories to fetch missing ties or hats, and rounded up again to go down to the courtyard. “Honestly, they should just give us the whole day off,” Ron said at breakfast, shaking his head. “Nobody’s concentrating on lessons, half the school’s in the loo fixing their hair. Some of the teachers too; did you see Trelawney, she’s gone and straightened hers…”

“Well, I know at least one teacher who isn’t fussed about his hair,” Harry said mischievously, glancing toward the front of the Great Hall. At the staff table, Snape was buttering his toast with a sour expression on his face, his greasy hair hanging down in its usual long, sad strings.

The morning of this year’s pictorial was cool and crisp, with a playful breeze that sent orange leaves drifting down from the trees. The Head Boys and Girls took turns marching each of their Houses out and seating them in neat rows in front of the fountain, while Professor Flitwick set up the camera. When it was Gryffindor’s turn, Percy Weasley naturally took charge, waving his arms like a traffic enforcer. “All right, everyone sit according to your year,” he called, “first years in front, seventh in back. No, Chadha, first years in _front,_ I don’t care how tall you are _—_ what are you doing, McAvoy, you’re not in Gryffindor, get out of there—“

Quickly, Harry squeezed into the third row between Ron and Dean Thomas, polishing his glasses on his robes. Once everyone was finally combed, smoothed, and settled, Professor Flitwick clambered up onto the stool behind the camera and raised his hand. “Now, everybody say _Fizzing Whizbees!”_ he squeaked, peering through the viewfinder. “One, two, _three—”_ The camera flash went off accompanied by a giant puff of pink smoke, which threw Professor Flitwick backwards off the stool, and caused a collective roar of laughter to arise until Percy threatened them all with detention.

The following week, the students got their copies of the photographs with the mail at breakfast. Harry slid his out of the envelope and grinned; there was all of Gryffindor House, waving back up at him.

“Oh, bloody hell. I must’ve blinked when the flash went off,” Ron said, pointing. The Ron in the photo was grimacing and blinking wildly, throwing his hands up in front of his face. By contrast, next to him Hermione was smiling immaculately, Ginny was smirking in the row below, and up near the top were Fred and George, sticking their thumbs in their ears and waggling their fingers.

“I like it,” Harry said, laughing. “It’s nice, having photos of you lot. I never had anything like this before Hogwarts.” Carefully, he tucked the glossy print into the back flap of the album Hagrid had given him, along with the House and Quidditch team photos from his first two years. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Ron and Hermione exchange a look, but he wouldn’t understand what that meant until later.

On the next Hogsmeade weekend, Ron and Hermione came back to the common room bearing a paper bag from Phuong’s Prestidigitatory Pictures. Inside it was a small secondhand wizarding camera that resembled a Polaroid, a box of film, and a new album with a green leather cover. “You didn’t have to,” Harry protested, feeling embarrassed and deeply touched at the same time.

Hermione just smiled and patted Harry’s hand. “Consider it an early Christmas present from the both of us.”

Harry was eager to start taking pictures, but he found that once he’d opened the camera up and set it in his lap, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. He’d always taken the Dursleys’ photos for them when they went on holiday, but he rather felt that what he wanted to do now was considerably different from simply walking backward far enough to get all of Dudley in the frame. Thankfully, Colin Creevey noticed his confusion, and came over to help him. “It’s easy, Harry, look,” he said kindly, indicating the little dial on the back. “This model magically detects and changes the light setting on its own; but if you want to override that, all you have to do is turn this here…”  

From then on, whenever he had a spare moment, Harry took his camera along. Soon he had a neat collection of moving photographs to fill his new album with: Nearly Headless Nick, tipping his head the way a living person might tip their hat; Hagrid, waving merrily with one hand and proudly lifting a string of dead ferrets in the other; Professor Lupin, a private smile on his lips as he read his book at the table and stirred his cup of tea. Harry’s favorite by far, however, was the one Ginny had taken of him, Ron, and Hermione one evening when they weren’t looking. The three of them had been doing their Astronomy homework in front of the common room fireplace; in the photograph they were sitting shoulder to shoulder, their heads bent together—in that one isolated moment, looking as though nothing bigger than a muddled star chart could ever trouble them.

 

* * *

 

  1. _Once, over the course of two memorable weeks, an escaped Chizpurfle wreaked havoc inside the castle._



“A _what?”_ Ron whispered, when it was announced at dinner.

“A Chizpurfle,” Hermione hissed back. “Newt Scamander wrote about them in _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them._ They’re small crab-like parasites that feed off larger creatures like Augureys and Crups, but they’re also attracted to leftover potions and objects with high magical concentrations.”

“My mam told me about them,” Seamus Finnigan said darkly. “She said once when I was little, we had a Chizpurfle infestation in our house. Turns out they were after her wand and some of the rare spellbooks she kept in the attic.”

“They _eat_ wands?” Harry asked, horrified.

“Yeah. Mam told the neighbors it was rats. Had to live with my uncle Angus for three weeks, while the Ministry pest control cleaned ‘em all out.”

“All students are advised to keep their wands and other important magical objects close at all times, even when using the facilities or retiring to their dormitories,” Professor McGonagall said, casting a stern eye over the students. “Rest assured, Professor Hagrid and the rest of the faculty are exerting their full efforts to secure the creature, and we hope to resolve this situation shortly.”

“There,” Hermione said in a satisfied tone. “Hagrid will have a solution.”

Hagrid did, in fact, have a solution, which was to set a Diricawl loose inside the castle—the best thing to do, he explained, since Diricawls naturally hunted and ate pests like Chizpurfles. Harry, Ron, and Hermione went down to Hagrid’s hut to see the Diricawl when it arrived; it turned out to be a fat little bird with a large beak and stubby wings, and rather resembled the dodo Harry had seen in a nature documentary on television once. “Chizpurfles are mighty difficult to catch. They’re good at hidin’, see, and wicked fast. But don’ yeh worry—this old girl will help us track down Chauncey in no time,” Hagrid assured them, tickling the feathers on top of the Diricawl’s head. The bird squawked happily, closing its eyes and nestling into Hagrid’s arms.

“You _named_ the magic-sucking parasite that’s currently trying to eat us out of wand and wallpaper?” Ron asked incredulously.

“Chauncey,” Hagrid repeated, looking sheepish as he continued patting the Diricawl. “And this here’s Demelza.”

It soon became apparent, however, that Demelza the Diricawl had absolutely no interest in hunting or eating the escaped Chizpurfle. Diricawls were known for randomly disappearing and reappearing in different locations, and Demelza did little other than use this trick to leave tidy heaps of dung all over the corridors and classrooms. “At least it’s tidy,” Madam Hooch chortled. Professor McGonagall was not as amused.

Meanwhile, the mysterious parasite remained out of sight, but continued on its ravenous quest—a forgetful Slytherin first-year left his wand in his dormitory and came back to find it had been gnawed right down to its dragon heartstring core, and one of the Hufflepuff Beaters went down to the broomshed one morning only to discover her Cleansweep Seven was completely missing its handle. Several students saw a golden opportunity in all the chaos, and began showing up to their classes claiming they hadn’t done any of their homework because the Chizpurfle had eaten their textbooks.

Before the week was out, however, the most alarming development of all occurred. It was Snape who told them about it first, during Friday’s double Potions with the Slytherins. As soon as he entered the dungeon, he stalked over to the chalkboard and rapped his knuckles on the scrawled directions there, his thin lips pursed.

“I have always emphasized the importance of cleaning up one’s workstation, have I not?” Snape said in a low, dangerous voice. “Unfortunately, _some_ students—“ He whipped his head around and directed his glare at Neville Longbottom, who automatically shrank back—“persist in flagrantly ignoring my instructions. Yesterday afternoon, the parasite that is currently running amok within the castle walls found its way to the dungeons, and proceeded to feast upon the dregs which Mister Longbottom so _thoughtfully_ left for it in his cauldron. Can anyone recall what potion we were brewing in yesterday’s lesson?”

Hermione raised her hand timidly. “The…Engorging Elixir, Professor?”

“Precisely,” Snape sneered. “The Engorging Elixir. As a result, the wretched creature has now swelled to, by my approximation, two hundred times its usual size.” Lavender Brown squeaked, while all the Slytherins sniggered. Neville had sunk so low into his seat, he looked as though he was trying to sink right through the floor.

“Poor Neville,” Hermione said later in the common room. Harry and Ron were sitting on the carpet having a thumb-wrestling match, with George acting as referee—while Fred was hiding underneath one of the sofas, waiting for some unsuspecting Gryffindor to sit down so he could grab their ankles and give them a fright. “He got detention scrubbing _everyone’s_ cauldrons for the next two weeks.”

“Pity,” Harry grunted, twisting his hand sideways in an attempt to trap Ron’s thumb.

“Ah-ah,” George said warningly. “Bordering on a foul, there, Potter.”

“Forget the Cheesepurple, when are they going to round up the bloody _bird?”_ groaned Dean, collapsing backward into a squashy armchair. “I mean, I enjoy Care of Magical Creatures as much as the next person, but I didn’t expect it to take over my entire Hogwarts education. The Diri-thingy left another present in my shoe yesterday, did you see?”

“Well, Hagrid did say he had a solution for that,” Hermione said.

Ron took a swipe at Harry’s thumb, swearing when he missed. “Which was?”

Hermione winced. “Setting a Kneazle loose in the castle to catch the Diricawl.”

Just then, Neville crawled through the portrait-hole, a worried expression on his face. “Are you all right, Neville?” Hermione asked sympathetically.

“What? Oh, detention. It was fine. It’s just that I can’t find my Remembrall,” Neville said, frowning. “What if the Chizpurfle’s eaten it and I didn’t even know?”

“Oh, Neville, you’re always losing your Remembrall, that doesn’t mean anything…”

“Well, _I_ think it’s silly that it’s been allowed to go on this long,” Parvati said haughtily. “Professor Dumbledore should write to Professor Grubbly-Plank, or someone from the Ministry. Obviously Hagrid isn’t equipped to handle this alo—“

“CHIZPURFLE,” Fred yelled, shooting out from under the sofa and grabbing Parvati’s ankles. Parvati shrieked and fell over, clutching her wand protectively to her chest, and George burst out laughing.

“Oh, don’t be such beasts, you two,” Ginny snapped. “It’s getting worse, the thing attacked Cat Quintana’s wand when she put it down just to do her eyeliner this morning…it’s bad enough it’s running wild in the castle, to say nothing of the fact it’s grown to the size of a Saint Bernard. Right, Harry?”

“Er…” Harry looked up at Ginny. Though she looked deeply annoyed, there was something inexplicably striking about her expression just then; Ginny really did have pretty eyes, Harry thought, and in the firelight her red hair shone almost golden…

“Aha!” yelled Ron triumphantly as he pinned Harry’s thumb down. “Got you!” George slapped the armchair seat three times and declared Ron the winner, to which Harry responded by grabbing a cushion and using it to hit Ron in the face.

To everyone’s relief, the entire Chizpurfle affair was over the very next evening. In the middle of dessert, Hagrid came running into the Great Hall at full tilt. “Professor Dumbledore, sir, we found ‘im! We found Chauncey!” he shouted excitedly, waving his umbrella. “He’s hidin’ in the girls’ bathroom on the third floor, and he’s madder than a doxy!” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout leapt to their feet and ran out of the hall, wands brandished.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at each other. “Girls’ bathroom again,” Ron said. “Think they need help?”

Harry thought about it for a moment. “Nah. I reckon they can handle it,” he said finally. Ron and Hermione nodded, and all three of them went back to eating their chocolate pudding.

 

* * *

 

  1. _The champion of the 1996 Hogwarts Inter-House Wizard’s Chess Tournament was Ronald Bilius Weasley._



There was a rumor circulating that Professor Vector, the Arithmancy teacher, had recently written a long letter to Dumbledore complaining about how in spite of Hogwarts’ excellent academic record, the students in their leisure time had become entirely too obsessed with shows of athletic skill, and had forgotten the importance of honing a keen strategic mind. Whatever the reason, the headmaster’s next dinner announcement was regarding the revival of the Inter-House Wizard’s Chess Tournament, which students from all year levels were welcome to sign up for.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Hermione said, scooping cabbage and peas onto her plate. “I mean, we already have the Gobstones club, of course, but chess requires much more mental acuity… It’ll be good to see more people taking interest in it.”

“’Oor jus’ sayin’ tha’ becoff ‘oo hate Quidditch,” Ron accused through a mouthful of shepherd’s pie.

“Excuse me, I go to every single one of your games,” Hermione replied coldly. “And I was just going to suggest that you sign up for the chess tournament.”

“Wha’, _me?”_ Ron swallowed and goggled at her. “That’s mental, I’m not—I couldn’t be—well, go on, Harry, tell her.”

Harry blinked at him. “Actually, I think it’s a brilliant idea. You’re great at chess, Ron, why don’t you have a go?”

Ron attempted to stab a pea with his fork and mumbled something about being out of practice.

“You certainly have enough time to draw all those caricatures of Moaning Myrtle in the back of your Potions book,” Hermione said briskly, taking a sip of pomegranate juice. “I’m sure you can spare a moment or two for chess practice.”

“Well…” Ron took another stab at the pea, which flew off his plate and hit Katie Bell in the back of the head. “I dunno. Maybe.”

As it turned out, Ron did go to sign up; the qualifying round for the tournament was held in the Charms classroom, during which Ron beat out Kellah Morris for the spot of Gryffindor representative. The semifinals gave Gryffindor even more cause for celebration—Ron walked out having soundly defeated Trevor Birch, the Ravenclaw player, after just half an hour. “’S just chess, it’s not a big deal,” Ron said modestly whenever he was congratulated. “Thought it’d be a laugh, that’s all…still, we’ll see what happens, eh?”

The championship game was to be held in the Great Hall the following Friday, and any students who had the afternoon free were encouraged to watch the match and support their schoolmates. “Oh no, I can’t,” Hermione said when she found out, looking stricken. “I promised Professor Sinistra I’d help her calibrate the telescopes that afternoon—we’ve already put it off twice—”

“It’s okay,” Harry said. “I’ve got a free period then, I’ll go and cheer on Ron for the both of us. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“All right. Give Ron my lo—“ Hermione stopped herself, turning pink. “I mean, tell Ron good luck from me,” she said, and hurried away before Harry could work out what it was she’d originally meant to say.

On Friday afternoon, Harry entered the Great Hall, which was oddly quiet and solemn at this time of day. All the long House tables were gone, and the benches had been turned to face the dais, where the staff table had been replaced with a glass chess set on a pedestal and two chairs, one on either side. Standing next to this was a tall, round mirror that reflected a close-up of the chessboard so the audience could see; Professor Vector had also conjured a giant silver ribbon that floated in midair, and formed a set of numbers that changed to count down the time.

Ron was already sitting onstage, across from the Slytherin representative—a small, dark-haired girl whom Harry thought might be two or three years below them, and who looked frail but had determined eyes. Ron’s head was bent closely over the board, but as soon as he saw Harry, he straightened up, grinned, and waggled his fingers at him. _Good luck,_ Harry mouthed, shooting Ron a thumbs-up as he settled onto a bench in the second row.

There wasn’t much of an audience, Harry noticed as he looked around—just a couple of bewildered-looking first years, who looked as though they didn’t quite know how they’d wound up there; and some sixth- and seventh-years who sat in the very back with their feet up, and who seemed more interested in laughing and flirting with each other than in the game. A few of the professors had come as well; McGonagall and Snape were there supporting their Houses, though they were sitting three feet apart and pointedly not making eye contact. Trelawney was there too, not sitting but prowling around the perimeter of the room, now and then glancing nervously at the enchanted ceiling as though she expected it to explode. In the back row, Hagrid and Dumbledore were sharing a bench that was sagging alarmingly on Hagrid’s end, the two of them holding up their knitting to compare the stitches.

Harry began to feel rather awkward sitting alone, and was just about to get up and move next to Hagrid, when someone sat down beside him. It was Luna Lovegood, wearing a pair of earrings made from Muggle chess pieces and a lumpy black-and-white checkered shawl, to which was pinned a badge that read _WEASLEY, GUARD YOUR KING._ “Hello, Harry,” she said dreamily. “Exciting, isn’t it?”

“Luna, hi!” Harry said, feeling relieved. “Yeah, it’s really—well, I’m here supporting Ron, anyway.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Luna nodded. “Both players are quite good, so I think it’s anyone’s game, really. Although I do hope they’ve both been eating enough cauliflower.”

“Er. Why is that?”

Luna regarded Harry gravely with her full-moon eyes. “People who don’t have enough cauliflower in their diet are particularly susceptible to Loser’s Lurgy. You should be eating lots of cauliflower too, Harry. It would be a shame if Gryffindor lost the Quidditch game next week because you were lacking the proper vitamins.”

“Erm, thanks, Luna. I’ll keep that in mind.” Harry glanced back over his shoulder, and just then a slender figure with white-blond hair walked through the great double doors. As the figure drew closer, Harry instantly felt his blood start to boil, because of course Draco Malfoy would stoop so low as to show up to heckle the competition at a _chess_ match.

But strangely, Malfoy did no such thing. He didn’t even seem to notice Harry was there; he merely crossed the hall, took a seat at the opposite end of the second row, and leaned forward slightly, all the while never taking his eyes off the Slytherin player. The girl glanced up from the chessboard, saw Malfoy in the audience, and waved—and Malfoy smiled, actually _smiled,_ and waved back at her.

“Welcome, everyone,” Professor Vector called, her voice ringing out in the near-empty hall as she ascended the steps to the dais. “Welcome, to the championship round of our newly resurrected inter-House chess tournament! Today, we are gathered to watch as Gryffindor representative Ronald Weasley and Slytherin representative Astoria Greengrass engage in a mighty battle of wits. If both players are ready? Very well!” Clearing her throat, Professor Vector raised her wand and cast a _Muffliato_ on Ron and Astoria to prevent them from hearing the commentary. Then she nodded at Lee Jordan, who was sitting just offstage with the microphone he usually used during Quidditch, a wizard’s chess playbook, and a somewhat panicked expression. “Then let the match—begin!”

“And white goes first, so it’s Weasley, off to a strong start as he moves a pawn to E4,” said Lee. “At least I _think_ that’s a strong start; honestly, I’m not sure why they asked me to do this, what I know about chess wouldn’t be enough to fill Merlin’s—”

 _“Jordan,”_ Professor McGonagall warned.

“Sorry, Professor, I’m trying my best…all right, Greengrass moves next, with a pawn to C5…oh, hang on, the playbook says this is possibly something called the Derkholm Defense, wicked…”

As the match progressed, Harry watched Ron in the mirror. He wasn’t good enough at chess to be able to tell by the board who was winning, but he could see Ron’s face, and it wasn’t screwed up in concentration the way it usually was when he was writing a parchment, or slightly green the way it was sometimes when he was goalkeeping. Playing chess, Ron looked completely calm—a little cocky, even. Then Ron smiled, and directed his knight forward to capture one of the black rooks. Harry leapt to his feet and opened his mouth to cheer—then realized it probably wouldn’t be appropriate and sat back down, feeling embarrassed and hoping no one had noticed.

“And Weasley’s got Greengrass’ castle!” shouted Lee excitedly, pounding his fist on the table. “GO, GRYFFINDOR!”

“JORDAN!”

“Sorry, sorry Professor, got a little carried away—er, and Greengrass moves her king to safety—“

Despite Lee’s spirited commentary and his own best efforts to follow the game, Harry eventually lost track and drifted off to sleep with his head against Luna’s shoulder. By the time a polite round of applause jolted him awake, it was because the match was over, and Ron was standing and shaking Professor Vector’s hand. “Thirty points to Gryffindor House, for that spectacular winning play by Mister Weasley,” announced Professor Vector, beaming as she handed Ron a small gold trophy shaped like an oversized queen piece. “And ten points to Slytherin, for Miss Greengrass’ fine effort—well done, well done indeed…”

Taking a leap off the dais, Ron jogged up to Harry and Luna, waving his trophy and smiling from ear to ear. “Well, that was all right!” he laughed. “Mind you, it was _tense_ in the last five minutes, when she got my knight, but then I—well, you saw what happened.”

“You were amazing,” Harry said honestly, grinning and clapping Ron on the back, while Luna congratulated him by taking off her shawl and draping it over his shoulders like a cape.

The three of them started to make their way out of the Great Hall together, Ron still giving them a play-by-play recounting of his victory. “See, I could _tell_ she was playing stupid and letting me demolish her back row, but really what she was doing was sneaking her bishop round to try to take my queen. So I used the Grimblehawk Gambit at the last minute, ha, knew she wouldn’t see that coming—shame Hermione had to miss it—“

As they walked, Harry slowed down a little, letting Ron and Luna get ahead of him, and watched as Astoria ran up to Malfoy and proudly showed him her silver rook trophy. The younger girl didn’t look at all disappointed that she’d lost—rather, as she and Malfoy walked out together, she chattered nonstop, moving her hands animatedly in the air. Malfoy appeared to be listening intently, nodding and asking questions in a low voice; as Astoria barely came up to his shoulder, his head was inclined toward hers, and Harry also noticed that Malfoy was shortening his stride to match Astoria’s steps.

“Oi, Harry! Something wrong?” Ron was standing in the doorway and frowning back at him.

Harry blinked, shaking his head. “No, it’s nothing,” he said, with one last backward glance, before hurrying out to catch up with his friends.

 

* * *

  

  1. _During exam week one year, Madam Pince had to set up a bed in the library for Hermione Granger._



Harry and Ron knew that Hermione had a terrible habit of reading until she fell asleep. This wouldn’t have been such a problem if she’d liked to study in Gryffindor Tower, but she always insisted that the common room was too rowdy, and she needed peace and quiet to be able to concentrate—so the library became her only refuge. This hermitic behavior worsened as exams drew nearer; Hermione would disappear for hours on end, emerging only to choke down a roll and some water before retreating into the stacks once more. “You’re going to make yourself sick,” Harry told her the first time he caught her, forcing her to sit down again and firmly pushing a full bowl of soup into her hands. “Nothing’s worth what you’re doing to yourself, not even if Cornelius Fudge showed up tomorrow and said your marks were so good that he wanted you to be Minister of Magic.”

Madam Pince was strict about closing the library at eight PM exactly, so at least Hermione was never actually spending the night in there. (“She would if she could, though,” Ron muttered to Harry.) However, there had been more than one incidence of a student rounding one of the shelves to find Hermione with her head on the table, sound asleep—after which the poor unwitting student would proceed to run out into the corridor, screaming that someone had died from studying too hard.

In a rare act of kindness, the austere librarian eventually Transfigured one of the window seats into a small bed for Hermione. “If you refuse to study in your House, you can at least take periodic naps in such a way that does not put our most prized volumes at risk of being drooled upon,” Madam Pince sniffed disdainfully. Being the cleverest witch of her age, Hermione knew better than to argue.

One afternoon, after Harry and Ron had finished their exams for the day—and unwound by playing a few well-earned rounds of Exploding Snap—they went to the library to look for Hermione. Sure enough, they found her asleep in her bed, a massive, dusty almanac spread out on top of the blanket. “I have an idea,” Harry whispered to Ron.

“What?” Ron asked.

“Just follow me.” With that, Harry strolled over to the table nearest to Hermione, Ron trailing bemusedly after him. “So, that History of Magic exam wasn’t so bad,” Harry said in a loud whisper as he lowered himself into a chair. “Think I missed a few in the middle, but it could’ve been worse, eh, Ron?”

Ron stared. “What’re you on about, History of Magic isn’t until tomorr— _Ow!“_ Frowning, he rubbed his ankle where Harry had kicked it under the table.

“Shh!” Across the room, Madam Pince glowered at them from behind her spectacles.

Understanding dawned on Ron’s face then. “Right, History of _Magic._ Yeah, no, that was a tricky one,” he said in the same staged whisper. In her bed, Hermione stirred slightly.

“Seriously?” Harry said, grinning. “But it was loads easier than last year’s! I mean, at least this time there were multiple choice questions…”

“What about the part where we had to name all the Pendle witches and describe in detail what each of them was accused of?” Ron winked.

“Yeah…when I said I missed a few in the middle, that was one of the ones I meant.” Glancing sideways, Harry saw Hermione open her eyes and stare at the ceiling for a moment, before slowly sitting up and pulling the blanket to her chest. “What’d you put down for number four, though?”

“Which one was number four again? Was it the one about how many times Wendelin the Weird got burned at the stake?”

Now Hermione was silently looking from Harry to Ron and back again in confusion. “Yeah, see, most people _think_ it was fourteen, because that’s what it says on the back of Wendelin’s Chocolate Frog card,” Harry said. “But Seamus told me that’s actually just a printing error they never got around to fixing. If you check the textbook, it says she was really burned a total of forty-seven times.”

“Aaah, serves me right for trusting in Chocolate Frogs...and I know I messed up the timeline of the Huntingdonshire executions on that last essay, too.”

“Hang on, how d’you spell ‘Huntingdonshire’? It’s not H…U…T…”

Hermione cleared her throat. “What…what are you talking about?”

“Oh, Hermione, you’re up.” Harry leaned back in his seat, yawning. “We were just saying that Binns wrote an okay final this year, don’t you think?”

“Professor…Binns?” Hermione repeated in a small voice.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Don’t ask Hermione, Harry, she’ll just say it was a breeze.”

“Personally, I thought the bit where we had to draw that one Danish witch getting beheaded at the guillotine was a little unnecessary, but overall…” Harry looked at Hermione. “What’s wrong?”

“I—Harry, oh no, oh no, I’ve made a terrible mistake!” Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide in horror.

“What, on number four? Don’t worry, I’ll bet you anything everyone got number four wrong—“

“No, not number _four!_ I missed it! I missed the exam!” Hermione wailed. “I came here straight after Potions, I’ve been asleep all afternoon!”

“What?” Harry pretended to stare incredulously at her. “You’re joking.”

Ron did an equally good job of pretending to stare incredulously. “We thought you just finished early and left the exam hall before everyone else…we didn’t realize you weren’t there at _all._ Blimey, Hermione, that’s dire.”

“Well, I’m sure you can just ask Professor Binns to retake it.” Harry looked encouragingly at Hermione, then at Ron. “Can’t she?”

“I dunno, mate.” Ron scratched the back of his neck. “When he was in his third year at Hogwarts, my great-uncle Lancelot got his schedule mixed up and missed his Defense against the Dark Arts exam.”

“What happened to him?” Hermione whispered fearfully.

Ron bowed his head. “He got expelled.”

The distressed yelp Hermione made then proved to be the last straw; Harry and Ron took one look at each other and burst out laughing. “This isn’t _funny,_ Ronald, _I slept through a final exam!”_ Hermione shrilled.

 _“No screaming in the library!”_ Madam Pince hissed from across the room, which only caused Ron and Harry to laugh harder, and Hermione to look completely and utterly at a loss.

“It was a _joke,_ Hermione,” Ron roared finally, slapping his knee. “History of Magic’s tomorrow, it’s only Tuesday.”

A parade of emotions proceeded to make its way across Hermione’s face, beginning with shock and ending with rage. “You two,” she said heatedly, pointing a finger at each of them in turn, “are the most childish, the most moronic, asinine, _impossible—“_ Then all of a sudden she stopped, slowly collapsed back onto her pillow, and began to giggle helplessly. Still laughing, Harry laid his forehead against her elbow, while Ron slid onto the floor gasping for breath and clutching his stomach, and the three of them stayed like that until Madam Pince became thoroughly fed up with the racket they were making and kicked them out of the library.

 

* * *

 

  1. _The Weasley twins threw the best end-of-term parties._



Summer always descended slowly upon Hogwarts, like a curtain at the end of a long play. The days gradually grew less wet and dreary, with the occasional tantalizing burst of sunlight here and there—and then, almost without anyone realizing it, final exams were over, everyone was scrambling to stuff their quills and socks into their trunks, and the skies were bright and clear.

On the last afternoon before they were set to take the train back to King’s Cross, Harry followed the other Gryffindors as they made their way down to the lake, where the Weird Sisters’ new album was blaring from a radio at top volume, and a giant banner that read _WEASLEYS’ WHIZBANG WATERSLIDE PARTY_ in gold letters was strung up between two trees. Standing beneath the banner were Fred and George, wearing identical straw boaters and welcoming excited groups of students. “Come one, come all! It’s only the start of the holidays, but we can already guarantee this’ll be the best bash you’ll go to all summer!” Fred shouted.

George waved his Housemates on through, stopping only to ruffle Angelina’s hair. “That’s right, this party is one night and one night only, no Slytherins allowed…only joking, Pucey, you can come in, but it’s fifty Galleons entrance fee…only joking again; there’s chilled pumpkin juice in the cooler, go on, enjoy…”

Harry often thought that he would never cease to be amazed by magic, and looking around the grassy bank, he thought it again now. The twins had somehow Transfigured a felled tree trunk into the much-advertised waterslide—which had more loops, twists, and turns than seemed healthy—and dumped whooping students directly into the middle of the lake, at which point the giant squid would lazily extend a helping tentacle to carry them back to shore. Some other students were waging a water balloon war in the shallows, while still others were simply lounging on blankets in the grass, soaking up the sun.

Sometimes too, in moments like these, Harry felt he was so happy that it hurt to breathe. Then he had to take a moment to step away from it all—just to stop feeling overwhelmed, to remind himself that all of it was real, and something he was allowed to be a part of.

“I’m just going to take a walk,” he murmured to Ron and Hermione, who were fishing bottles of pumpkin juice out of the cooler. “Catch up with you later?”

“Sure, mate,” Ron said, raising his bottle as Hermione waved.

Withdrawing from the festivities, Harry started to walk around the lake, watching the gold creep its way up from the horizon, and the owls swoop across the vast expanse as they began their evening hunt. He was so engrossed he forgot to look where he was going, which was how he wound up tripping over Professor Dumbledore, who was sitting with his robes rolled up to his knees and his bare feet in the water. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t—“

“Quite all right, Harry.” Dumbledore patted the patch of grass beside him. “Would you care to sit? I wouldn’t say no to company.”

Harry sat, pulling off his shoes and socks and copying Dumbledore, immersing his feet in the lake. The water was blissfully cool, and he felt a tickle as a tadpole brushed past his heel. “Er…are you enjoying the party, sir?” he asked, feeling bashful all of a sudden.

“Oh, yes. It’s true what they say, you know. Teaching, being around students, keeps you feeling young.” Dumbledore bobbed his head to the rhythm as the radio started playing “Heliopath to My Heart,” lifting one long, slender finger to allow a passing butterfly to rest on it. “I am well over a hundred years old, Harry; but sitting here with you, I can still recall with perfect clarity the end-of-term party we threw at Hogwarts when I was thirteen. I bet Elphias Doge five Sickles he wouldn’t ask Matilda Marchbanks to dance.”

“Did he, sir?”

“He didn’t get the chance, I’m afraid. Matilda asked him first, and Elphias was so overcome I had to take him to the hospital wing.” Dumbledore chuckled, and Harry did too.  

A comfortable silence fell over them after that—one that Harry hated to disturb, even though there was still something he was working out how to ask. “What you said, sir. About teaching,” he began hesitantly. “Did you always know…that you wanted to go back to Hogwarts?”

Dumbledore was quiet for a moment. “No, not always,” he said finally. “For a long time, I thought I might lead a very different life. But, after having had my share of adventure, and having been humbled a great deal—I was lost, and it was then that I felt Hogwarts calling me home.” He studied Harry through his half-moon spectacles. “Are you thinking of applying for a teaching position after you graduate, Harry? I think you might find you have quite the aptitude for it.”

“Well, no, not exactly. It’s just…” Harry gazed down through the water. A whole group of tadpoles had gathered by his ankle; he kicked his foot a little, and the tadpoles dispersed, scattering into the blue. “It’s hard to imagine ever saying goodbye to it, sir,” he confessed.

Dumbledore nodded. “Goodbyes are almost always difficult.” He gazed thoughtfully into the thick of the party; Fred and George now appeared to be taking bets as to who could do the best dive off the end of the slide. “And sometimes, yes, they are for ever. But other times, when we are very lucky—they are not truly a farewell, but simply _until we meet again.”_ Turning, he gave Harry a gentle, knowing smile. “Hogwarts will always be here for you to come home to, Harry, no matter where you go.”

A lump formed in Harry’s throat, and he found himself unable to respond. Dumbledore seemed to understand, because he changed the subject. “I hear there is to be a fireworks display later this evening,” he remarked casually. “How wonderful! The waterslide alone is a marvelous piece of Transfiguration work; I really must give my compliments to the casters.”

“Better not, sir. They’ll only get more big-headed than they already are,” Harry said.

Dumbledore chortled, producing a tin of candy from the folds of his robes and popping one delicately into his mouth. “Lemon drop?” he asked, beaming and extending the tin to Harry.

Harry unstuck one sweet from the congealed lump in the middle. “Thank you, sir,” he said, smiling back. Stretching his arms out behind him, he pressed his palms flat against the ground so he could rest his weight on them, lifting his face to the sky.

He thought about writing a letter to Sirius, about everything he was feeling in this moment—but he knew, somehow, that it would be impossible to capture it all in words. But the next time he had to cast a Patronus, he thought, he would want this day to be what he remembered. So before the feeling slipped away from him, Harry tried as hard as he could to let it wash over him completely—every detail, every single sensation. The laughter and the faint thumping of a bass that echoed across the lake; the serene warmth of the last rays of sunlight on his face, and the beginnings of the velvet-cool night still to come. Dumbledore humming absently beside him, and the lemon drop on his tongue melting away to its sweet center—and how Harry was, in the here and now, so impossibly full of joy, and so wonderfully, incredibly alive.

**Author's Note:**

> The initial seed for this fic was basically a shower thought that was, hang on a second, why was Colin Creevey the only person taking photos at Hogwarts, do you mean to tell me Harry had ZERO photos of himself and his friends growing up other than the ones Colin ambush-snapped and the ones in the articles that Rita Skeeter wrote for the Daily Prophet, ARE YOU KIDDING ME.
> 
> All of the scenes take place roughly between the trio's third and sixth years at Hogwarts, though you'll have noticed I made absolutely no mention of Umbridge, or the Triwizard Tournament--or Voldemort for that matter. Just mentally slot each of these vignettes into one of the breathing spaces between all those things, because dagnabbit, I want Harry James Potter to be happy and have nice things.
> 
> Also, would you believe I've been both an HP fan and a fanfic writer for roughly eighteen years now, but this is the first serious HP fic I've written...fandom life is funny like that sometimes.


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